


Mightier than the sword

by Dienda



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Florida AU, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dienda/pseuds/Dienda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt struggles with leaving violence behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mightier than the sword

 

Will is adamant about it. Hannibal Lecter is dead because he needed to be put down, like a rabid dog, but after that, after their necessary kill, they wouldn’t become murderers. Will won’t allow it. They deserve better than that. They’re both better than that.

They settle into a small house in Sugarloaf Key and begin a life together. They get jobs and they fish, they run on the beach at sunrise and plunge into the ocean before coming in for breakfast.

It is, on the surface, the peaceful existence they’ve been looking for. But Will wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t notice there’s something gone from Matthew’s eyes.

He demanded they left violence behind and Matthew acquiesced without a word of complaint. Yet, Will is aware violence is all Matt knows, all he has ever expected; he prepared himself for viciousness so thoroughly that it became his nature. Without it ―without the possibility of it― Matthew wanders around like a wounded thing, like a magnificent beast that got its claws ripped away but refuses to lick his wounds, out of love, out of the ever present desire to please.

It makes Will’s heart ache, to feel the tightness beneath Matt’s smile, behind his eagerness; he feels more guilt now than he ever did when Jack Crawford showed him the pictures of Lecter’s corpse. He tries to distract Matthew by teaching him his trade: his way around a motor, the precise tying of a lure, the little things about keeping the dogs; all the actions that bring him comfort, that quiet his mind. He offers his body like a meagre compensation.

Matthew accepts everything, learns and follows and falls into Wills arms with tenderness instead of resentment, but the hollow is always present, always visible in the silence of his skin.

 

One night, Will suggests Matt should chase him, hold him down and expend his violence on him. They’ve been rough with each other before; they’ve left bruises and marks, drawn the other’s blood, and tumbled around like they were fighting. It wouldn’t be any different.

Matthew shakes his head and withdraws.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t mind.” He smiles. “We’ll be playing.”

“No.” They both know it’s a lie; it would have nothing to do with playing, nothing to do with lovemaking. It would be about death and hurt, and Matthew is too scared he won’t be able to stop until he gets there.

Before Will can say anything, the younger man has redressed and is already out the door. Will doesn’t follow him. He sits on the unmade bed and wishes with all his might that, whatever he does, Matthew comes back to him.

 

Will startles when the dogs begin barking and the front door opens. He scrambles to his feet and reaches the living room in time to see Matthew walk into the back room carrying something in his arms. He closes the door behind him and Will hears the lock sliding into place. It’s almost three in the morning. He’s been gone four days.

A moment later there’s a sound like a muted gunshot and Will hurries to the door.

“Matthew, what was that?” Worry rolls bitter in his throat, a nameless panic that makes his voice high. “Please, Matt; open the door, let me in. Please, let me in.”

The sound comes again in a rapid fire and Will’s about to throw himself at the door when he recognises it as the keys of a mechanic typewriter. He sighs in confusion and relief; he doesn’t care what Matthew’s doing ―what he has done― as long as he’s within reach. As long as he’s safe.

He sits on the couch, surrounded by the dogs, and waits.

 

Dawn comes and the sun rises steadily brighter. Will feeds the dogs and lets them run around the beach; he showers and settles on the floor to work on a boat engine he has to deliver the next day. All this time, the keys of the typewriter dance behind the closed door like raindrops.

Night is colouring the horizon when Matthew comes out. Without saying a word, he leaves a stack of paper by Will’s side and leaves the house. His eyes are wide and expectant and Will understands that, like the bailiff, like Hannibal Lecter, this is an offering.

It is a story.

All the frenzy and the violence in Matthew’s head are rendered in the tale of a man caught under the abusive thumb of his father and the achievement of his freedom through murder. The words are harsh and graphic but carry a lightness that flows in Will’s mind and makes him see the steps of the story with the stark clarity he used to have at crime scenes.

He goes to the back room, papers still in hand; an old Olympia is perched on a rickety table that was already in the house when they moved in; a wooden stool sits between a couple of empty boxes and a bag of dog food; there are sheets of paper everywhere, crumpled and stained, clearly ripped from the platen.

Matt comes back a couple of hours later and approaches the bed like a wary puppy. Will pulls him down to his side.

“Matt, it’s beautiful.”

The younger man understands his compliment, smiles widely. “Really?”

“It’s perfect,” Will kisses him, kisses his fingertips, they must be aching. “Thank you, Matthew.”

“I didn’t do anything, when I left.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

 

They go back to their routine. They swim, they fish, they play with the dogs, and, some days Matt goes into the back room and patters away at the Olympia. Will clears the room for him, finds him a proper desk and a comfortable chair, and installs two rows of shelves so Matthew can keep his books and papers. He cleans the typewriter, disassembles and oils it so it won’t hurt Matt’s fingers so badly.

Sometimes Matt asks his advice and they lie all night talking about corpses and forensic evidence. It’s nothing like before; they’re not horrible deeds that Will needs to protect them both against; it’s the creative force, the raw matter that Matthew holds in his hands and in his words.

 

One summer evening Will waits in line at the store’s checkout; the air is damp even inside and he picks up a magazine to pass the time while he waits. It’s some sort of artistic publication with poems and drawings and a few short stories. He buys it.

“Hey,” when he comes back home he tosses the magazine at Matthew. “I found it at the store.”

“What is it?” Matt examines it with a frown.

“Literary slick. They accept submissions.”

“You think they’ll have me?” he asks with a cocked eyebrow.

“They have a story about a man who gets castrated with a hammer; you’ll fit right in, love.”

Matt reads it avidly, like he reads everything, and a few days later drives out to Marathon to submit a text. He gets an answer in less than two weeks. They’ll print it.

Will buys three copies the day that Matthew’s issue hits the stands and displays them proudly on their bookcase. It’s only a local publication but he suggests framing one to hang it on their bedroom wall. Matt rejects the idea with a scoff and a pretty blush.

Will does it anyway.

 


End file.
